The Time He Spent
by ticonderogas
Summary: What Levi learns from Kenny in the underground, what he does not, and what he has to learn for himself. One shot.


With the way his bangs obscured his eyes and the way his head hung low as he focused on the more important task at hand, he hardly bothered to register the way that man was staring at him in shock. He could not bring himself to care; he hasn't eaten in a long time.

_Kenny_. That was what he said his name was. He wasn't even afraid when that tall and lanky man opened the door and illuminated the dark room, it was a relief for something to finally happen—for someone other than himself to realize that his mom was dead. He was taken to a pub, no questions asked. And despite the weird looks they received from everyone inside, they sat alone at a table together in silence.

No one knew what to make of the sight. _The_ Kenny the Ripper, with his hat and blood-stained coat, sat turned away and across from a child who looked more like a ghost than a person. And he ate, until Kenny had to stop him before he would throw it all back up.

He didn't return to his mom that day, or ever again afterwards. He was taken to an area he had never been before, where the people looked a little meaner and a little grimmer. But Kenny's place was bigger, nicer, and had more than just one window.

It would take some time before he was given a proper bed to sleep in. In the meantime, he was given clean clothes and he spent many days sleeping before Kenny told him to get up and do something useful.

Rumors were spread around. That Kenny had murdered a family but spared the only kid; he had an illegitimate child and was paying his dues; or even that he kept him locked up to use however he saw fit. What they did not know was that it was all true, or it could have been true. It didn't matter to him in the slightest. That was the first thing he learned from Kenny: to mind his own business.

* * *

1\. Obedience

Kenny could not have gotten it better. He could have created anything he wanted out of him. He was already hollow, from the lack of muscle in his body to the absence of emotion behind his eyes, all he had to do was build him back up. And Kenny saw in him the potential to be better than he ever was. _He_ could come out on top, he just needed the power to do it. So, Kenny decided to guide him.

He was taught to never disobey him. Even when Kenny would leave for hours or even days at a time, when he returned with a new array of bruises littered across his knuckles and blood on his coat that was never his own, he never questioned him.

He did not care to think about the implications of death, death was just another thing he grew accustomed to. It was a part of life where they were, and it would come eventually to everyone. He just wished it didn't have to be so bloody, that's what made it ugly.

No one ever told him that murder was a bad thing. He didn't know what it meant, just that Kenny did it all the time. Only he would say that those people crossed him first, he was just returning the favor. He said those people were out to get him and he was protecting himself. And he was relieved to hear that, if not for Kenny, who else would he be with? But after hearing all the talk on the street, he wondered what it was exactly that Kenny had done to make people fear him.

He would stay silent as Kenny rammed the heads of unsuspecting goons into tables, and he would keep watch as the older man "conducted business" in shady alleyways. He listened to him because he knew the ways around, how to get food on the table, how to stop and pick fights, how to pick pockets. And people didn't like to get in the way of him.

Kenny always got what he wanted, by any means necessary. And he always listened to him because he didn't know any better. He didn't know what violence was just as much as his only familiarity with kindness was from his mom. But she didn't seem to fare well.

As the only living person who seemed to look after him was this man, this tough and rowdy man who hardly spoke to him, then so be it. He was in no way his mom, or even his dad, but he was all he had. So, when Kenny tossed a knife at him for the first time and told him to show him what he could do, he listened.

* * *

2\. Weapons

This part he found himself enjoying, he had a peculiar knack for it. He wasn't very strong, and his musculature was the furthest thing from exceptional, but this he saw as a potential advantage if he could learn how to use it right. It started with kitchen knives, to determine how he felt around it and whether he was comfortable using one. Then he went on to throwing knives and improving his aim.

Kenny barely praised him. Only nodded at him or called their little sessions done for the day when he was satisfied with his performance. But he could never wrap his head around it. It was too big for his hands, too awkward in his grip, too lethal to be in his possession. His mom would only ever use it to cook food with and she had never allowed him to touch it. He'd seen Kenny use it countless times, but even then, his position was always on the sidelines in that case. But now, there could be use for him, to fight whatever it was Kenny was preparing him for.

He was beginning to realize just how ugly their world was and how stuck they were in it. They had to do anything they could to survive. Everything was always cast in a sooty shadow, the water never ran clear, the ground was covered in dirt and filth, and no one was ever allowed out.

Except Kenny. He never told him what he was up to, but he knew that he has gotten up before, gone out of this place, yet still he kept returning.

Everyone was working toward something. He had no idea what Kenny was chasing but he figured this could be his then. When he was finally given a proper dagger, as coarse as it was, he worked with it until he had gotten used to it. Until he could maneuver with it easily, until he could conceal and unsheathe it without batting an eye.

And on a particular day when he easily became fed up with the inconvenient handling of the weapon, he let it fall upside down in his palm to strike more naturally. Soon after, knives didn't feel so misplaced in his hands.

"Hmph," he had heard from the man who always sat feet behind him and studied his every movement, "nice work, boy."

* * *

3\. Violence

There were people he got used to seeing. The bunch of homeless men who huddled around a burning trash can each night, the kids who ran around every day looking for food or work, and the ones who passed through but could never find a place to settle.

But they all started looking at him differently. He noticed the slight side glances he would receive as he walked through the street, or how shop owners wouldn't take their eyes off him as he entered their stores, or even the obvious avoidance of the other kids he had not gotten the chance to meet. And it seemed as if he never would, he realized, as he watched as they would slowly turn away from him and reject him altogether.

Kenny taught him how to fight. He gained enough muscle back and height that maybe he could hold his own. Kenny even noted how he was small but strong, and he was quick in his movements. He accompanied him throughout the district, picking fights as Kenny picked information. It was the only form of physical contact that he gave or received, until it came off him more naturally than words. He was hyper aware of his movements, what he was capable of, how fast he could run, how forceful he could swing.

If he was anyone else, maybe he would have been concerned. Instead of learning to cook or strengthen his reading skill he was becoming adept at reading body language. Instead of fantasizing over folklore or dreams of another world he was analyzing patterns of movement and searching for weak spots. It became second nature to him, entering rooms and sizing up its occupants. Finding ways to turn an open bar into a fighting environment. Using tipped over benches as barriers and empty glasses as projectiles, being able to use his size to slip out in the resultant panic. Strength and pain practically dripped from his fingertips, creating an art that people would pale at witnessing.

On some nights, they would place bets. Arrogant thugs against that kid who's been hanging around Kenny the Ripper. _That_ name was threatening enough to swing favor into his side, but after the spectators took a glance at him, they always voted against him. But after some experience, he always proved them wrong.

He would dodge and punch, but with one hand occupied with a knife, he found what was most effective was using his legs for defense as well. So, with one hand clasping the collar of a man's shirt, he would swing his knee to get him in the side until he was coughing up blood. People would howl or boo as he walked off, following meters behind Kenny who always turned around and collected the meager reward. He did not buy things for him, just threw some coins at him and told him to stop bleeding all over the floor.

So, he would wash his knuckles off, let the blood drip from his split lip into the wash basin until it dried, and scrub at his clothes until there was no more evidence left behind from his fights, something Kenny could get better at doing.

And when he would walk outside the following morning, scabs forming and bruises purpling, but his clothes showing no sign of his endeavors, people still turned away from him.

* * *

4\. Teamwork

They worked well together. They moved in silence and understood each other's movements. It was a routine they practiced. Kenny would sit near a window with his legs kicked up and the brim of his hat pulled low as he would get to work. Maneuvering around patrons and counters as he ducked around establishments or homes searching for papers or money, people in compromising positions, or their own hit list.

He had gotten good at ducking into corners or waiting in the shadows. And as a man and a woman passed by, in their clothes too well put together for the underground, he watched as Kenny gave him the signal to pursue with a slight glance and tip of his hat.

But sometimes Kenny would get cocky. Storming off before giving him any orders and leaving him to wonder where he disappeared to and what his plan was. Those time he would wait in frustration, and he would scowl as others passed by and gave him weird looks, completely unaware of the plight he was in. And whenever Kenny returned, he had to learn to hold his tongue back.

Why bring him along if he was going to go off on his own anyway? He was ready and he was willing to help, but Kenny's own pride and ego always got in the way of things. At least he was good at what he does.

But if he could only understand that if he had waited for him to finish with his observation, he would have known the boss was clued in to him, and he wouldn't have had to run off after the man, silencing him for good as he screamed. He could have grabbed the files and they both could have been on their way, one less death on their hands.

But Kenny knew what was best, that was the first thing he learned. If only Kenny had just put a little faith in him.

* * *

5\. Manipulation

He never dwelled on his situation. Even when he would pass the other kids on the street, either starving away, huddled against a dumpster, or clinging tightly to their parents as they hurried away. He felt sorry for them. If only they knew how to fend for themselves. They could get whatever it was they needed: clothes, food, medicine. That was what he was learning, how to get what he wanted.

This was one of the tougher things for him to understand, and he never got much practice at it either, just watched and listened to Kenny from afar as he would make deals and trick people into spilling secrets. Kenny told him he didn't have much talent with this, but with his flat tone and sharp cognitions, he could be a skilled liar.

And he was. Feigning ignorance or fear in front of strangers, drawing attention away from Kenny by falsely accusing others, lying to shopkeepers about stolen goods as Kenny watched on.

It occurred to him that ever since Kenny started bringing him out more, during the day, in public, and working more directly with him, they had to keep their heads down. Their gazes were always low, they always walked with purpose, and they never stood out. They avoided certain people and certain places: those whose eyes were a little too bright for the underground; places that saw a lot of patrons; squares that had military police lazily surveilling.

They always avoided the military police, and Kenny always made sure to tell him that he shouldn't get mixed up with them. He could fight and he could defend himself, so why should these guys be any different? Didn't they understand what it meant to survive in the underground?

There was a riot that broke out during one of the days Kenny disappeared. He was outside, with his head under a hood as a fight began. There was shouting between some people exiting a shop and the two workers behind the counter. He didn't know who moved first, but he moved out of the way and safely across the street. They jumped on each other, shoving and punching until onlookers jumped in for the heck of it and others more cleverly slipped through the chaos to bag goods while the shopkeepers were otherwise occupied.

Bodies hit the ground and got back up just to keep going. Fists were being thrown and curses were yelled. He watched as the people in the area screamed in horror. They ran away as quickly as they could, grabbing hands or arms or full on pushing their friends to get out of the way. A frail mutt was trampled, and a young boy wailed at the scene in front of him. Beneath his hood, he flinched at the piercing scream of a lady who lost it when a person was knocked down before her.

When the military police rushed in, he sank deeper into the shadows. He was surprised they showed up at all, countless misdemeanors happen throughout the day and they hardly did anything. The MP's wrestled as they tried to pull the fighting group apart. When a woman drew a knife, an MP raised his gun and she slowly dropped it. Two men who were still shouting at each other were being handcuffed. Those who rushed into the store were being held inside and made to empty their pockets. Someone came to pick up the poor dog with a look of sadness on their face, and an MP knelt to hand a napkin to the little boy who was still crying.

He sat down against the wall and watched the last of it. Six people struggling up against the shopfront window, a dinky piece of glass covered in so many scratches and caked with a layer of dirt and dust. A dangerously skinny woman was clawing at a guy who was already bruised and dripping with blood while a younger man, also banged up, was caught in the middle desperately trying to tear them apart. Three MP's were each trying to grab one of them.

_This doesn't look good_, he thought to himself. They were all backed up into the flimsy window that hadn't stopped shaking since the fight broke out. Every other second their reflections would become distorted as it wobbled. The final blow came when the bigger man threw the younger one who was grabbing onto his back off him and into the window. The glass shattered.

It was then he quickly decided to leave, getting up and walking away. When he came back to their place, walking through the empty rooms and spotting an old dagger from months ago, rusting and buried in Kenny's bag, he felt the urge to wash his hands.

He understood then what it meant to deceive. Kenny never lied to him, but he was meticulous when it came to the truths he had decided to tell him. He gave him just the information he needed to continue believing that what they were doing was necessary.

He learned why he was so lousy at manipulation. It was never about convincing lies, it was how much the truth could be distorted to fit the agenda. The best liars always tell the truth—he would come to figure that out on his own. Along with the reasons why the military police stepped in to stop the fighting that day; why the thieves were put down; why someone showed mercy to a dead dog; why the boy cried; why the woman screamed; and why he felt regret when the window broke.

Months later, when Kenny turned around and walked away from his fight for the last time, he learned that there were some things he could never teach him.

* * *

**I'd love to know your thoughts, cross posted on ao3 so I can respond to you guest reviewers if you'd like :)  
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